R i g h t Wrong and Wrong
by PrincessDesire
Summary: Season 6. Sam wants Dean to remember something that he's repressed. Warnings: Underage (17-13), mild dub-con, guilt, FMM (OCxDeanxSam), MM (DeanxSoulless!Sam)


R̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ Wrong and Wrong

by PrincessDesire

Summary: Season 6. Sam wants Dean to remember something that he's repressed.

Warnings: Underage (17 and 13), kind of dub-con, FMM, Soulless!Sam

Something is wrong. Dean's awake, jerked out of sleep against the will of his tired bones, forced into alertness by the wrong something. It's dark, but he doesn't need to see the thing, can feel it. He's being touched. That's wrong because it's the middle of the night and he's sure he went to bed alone, sure that Sammy was sitting on his own bed, flipping through useless late night TV, the standup comedians and laugh tracks and doctors calling "Stat!" and "Clear!" too loud for Dean to fall asleep until he did, open road filling his unconscious until even his dreams are road trips.

That hand on his hip and the warm body behind him should not be there.

"The Hell?" he grunts, head twisting around Exorcist-style to see the intruder. Even in the dark, even if he was blind, he would still know that ear, whether curtained by nutmeg hair or not, knows its unique angle, knows that if Sam was bald, he'd look like Dumbo. "Sam?"

The hand grips tighter and the eyes watch him, just glints of moisture to his straining vision. It hurts his neck to look and hurts his brain to try and figure out why Sam is here in his bed, holding onto him as he hasn't since they were kids.

"What the hell is going on? What's wrong?"

"Had a dream," Sam whispers.

Dean turns back around, allowing his neck to rest, no need to contort himself when he can barely see his brother anyway. He's still coming down from the adrenaline rush, still having to tell himself that there is no immediate danger, that it's just his stupid kid brother acting like a five year old. "You crawled in bed with me because you had a nightmare? I'm not your damn teddy bear, Sam!" He hopes that his voice conveys just how annoyed he is. His heart is still racing when it should be slowly thrumming to the rhythms of his sleep.

"Not a nightmare," says Sam, his breath warm on Dean's nape.

"You woke me up because of a good dream?" He's gonna turn around at any second and snap his brother's stupidly muscular neck. The hotel's ancient heater kicks on then, high-pitched whine drowning out whatever Sam says next. The only way he knows his brother has spoken at all is because of more puffs of air on his neck. The hand on his hip moves inward, thumb brushing the sensitive dip from the hip bone. "What?" asks Dean. He's asking about both the missed words and the disturbing caress; either answer would be appreciated though the latter would be preferable.

"I said," the breath is now on his ear and Sam's cheek slides against his neck to reach it. "It was more of a good memory. A very good memory."

Dean gets it. Getting it feels like being walloped by a sack of pennies, complete with instant headache and total disorientation. Little brother pressed against him, whispering innuendo in a husky breath, and thumbing at the curve of his hip. Yeah, Cas has assured him that though Sam's been weird since he got back from the pit, there is no Lucifer hitched to Sam's tailcoats, but he's not sure he believes his friendly neighborhood angel right now because putting the moves on a family member seems like something the Devil would do, certainly not Sam, not his goody goody brother. "What the _fuck_ has gotten into you?" Dean asks, turning uselessly to stare at the silhouette of his brother's head only to get annoyed at the lack of light and turn back. He should just climb out of bed and flip on the light, have this out right away before it becomes yet another dark thing between them that never gets fixed, but he's reluctant to do so. It might just be easier to face Sam without having to look at him, and though he's hoping that this is some remnant of hell, a memento from the cage gift shop, if it isn't, he could really destroy their relationship, the one that has already taken so much abuse.

"I was remembering something." The hand, Sam's hand, moves still inward, dips under the waistband of his briefs, and with a firm grip, wraps around his penis

"That's my dick," says Dean, voice shockingly not squeaking in surprised fear, doesn't match the one in his head that is screaming like a teenage girl in a haunted house. Mostly he's freaking out, because this is Sam grabbing his dick, but he's also freaking out because this is Sam grabbing his dick. The duality lies neither in the reaction nor its cause, but the deep-seated emotions driving the reaction. Sam shouldn't be grabbing his dick because Sam is his brother, incest is wrong, and hello, he's a dude. But he also shouldn't be grabbing his dick because that is a rabbit hole long-since side-stepped, a trap into which Dean always refused to fall, even when his teenage libido was trying to tell him it was okay, whispering that their family already wasn't normal and that Sam was so close, always within reaching distance, and always so eager to please.

Sam, the enigmatic dark figure behind him, rolls his hips against Dean's ass. He can feel the firmness there, erection trumpeting Sam's intentions. "That's mine," he says.

"Whoa! Okay!" Dean yells, topmost arm hoisting himself until he has his weight on both hands but his ass still firmly on the mattress, knees pulled up and ready to throw his feet over the edge of the bed at any time. "What the flying _fuck_ is going on with you?"

Sam's smiling, Dean can just make out its shine. For a second, Dean thinks he's being pranked or something, being made a fool for humor's sake, but that's a long way to go for a joke, and he dismisses the explanation quickly. One of the deciding factors for Dean thinking that Sam is legitimately making a pass at him is the hand that with Sam's freakish monkey-long arms is still on his dick despite Dean's quick movements.

"I bet you still remember," Sam says vaguely, swiping his thumb across the head of his cock.

"What are you talking about?" asks Dean.

"You remember, Dean. I know you do."

_Fucking fuckity fuck fuck_. He refuses to have this conversation. Would rather reminisce about hell, about their father dying to save him, about absolutely fucking anything than what he knows Sam is referring to. It has to be that one time because one time was all there ever was and even that wasn't one time, more of a half a time, or a third. It has to be that third of a time, the one that he pushed as far back in his mind as he could without reaching hair. "Sam, shut the hell up and get out of my bed."

"Her name was Clara," Sam's words start, his hand continues, stroking Dean's confused half-awake dick.

"Dude, seriously. Shut the _fuck_ up." His growl is nearly lycanthropic. He hasn't wanted Sam to shut up this badly since he was four and figured out the Echo game. Funny how words are bothering him way more than his brother molesting his junk.

"She was so wet just from you kissing her or maybe it was because you were kissing her in front of me."

If Dean's heart had been beating fast when he'd woken to an unknown presence, now it was the fucking Indy 500. His throat feels dry and he coughs, has to if he wants to keep breathing because it kind of feels like he's choking or asphyxiating. He's too busy to physically stop his brother from speaking, too busy trying not to choke to death on his own saliva.

"I was doing a crossword puzzle at the little table by the door in that motel in Crossville when you came in. You two looked like one person, connected by lips and hands. And it didn't matter that she was so much shorter than you were because you just lifted her up, remember? She had her legs around you and your hands were on her ass and she saw me. Remember the sound she made when you said, "That's just Sammy," and she realized you were gonna fuck her right there in front of me?"

Somehow even through his coughing fit, he can hear each word megaphoned to his ears and into the pit of his stomach where the word "wrong" has formed a tight ball that's swirling angrily around and around. "Sam, stop," his command is weaker, because, God help him, he does remember.

He was seventeen. Clara had sold him ammo at a pawn shop. She'd had short blonde hair that curled out and up. It bounced like her breasts when she walked. He'd almost felt dizzy watching her as she made her way from the shop to her yellow VW bug. Once he'd kissed her, she'd become like Velcro and he'd taken her back to the motel. He had fully intended to kick Sam out, he would swear that til his dying day, if, that is, he was ever willing to admit that the incident happened at all, which he wasn't. He was gonna walk in the motel door, toss Sam a tenner, and then ride that girl, make that hair bounce with every thrust of his hips. But it had all gone wrong so fast, and he didn't know why but he did know why. There was no connection at that moment between his mind and his heart and his dick; they might as well have been in separate states for as much as they were communicating.

Sam isn't stopping, either words or hand movements and Dean's starting to respond to both and it might as well be 1996 again because his brain is not giving him permission to have a reaction of any kind, let alone a positive one, and his dick isn't getting the message. "And you pretty much just dropped her on the bed and kissed her and undid the buttons of her flannel. She had the most gorgeous breasts and I know you thought so because you told her, and then you told me. You included me, Dean, and fuck, I didn't even know my cock could get that hard that fast."

Dean's will to fight leaves with the last of his flaccidity. He lowers himself back down, back into the fetal position he'd been in when Sam had started doing this to him and just like then, the hand is still present, but in a more pleasant location. Sam adjusts accordingly, slipping back, firm erection against Dean's ass, and cheek resting heavily on his neck. He's giving permission again, and he doesn't know why he is but he does know why he is and he's scared, more scared than he'd been when Michael wanted his body as a vessel, more scared than ever before.

""Aren't these fucking awesome breasts, Sammy?" you asked me. I was too nervous to talk, probably a bit too turned on too, and you noticed, because you were looking at me. Then you said, "They feel better," and I knew what you were offering. And Clara looked at me, and fuck, she was high as a kite, just from horniness alone, from how much she wanted your cock in her. Dean, I knew how she felt."

Dean moans. "Sammy," he whispers. He can't believe his ears any more than he can believe what's happening. It's too much of what he's wanted to hear since he was thirteen, since he was the age that Sam was when he'd invited him to share Clara, the wet little store clerk in Tennessee.

"That was the first time I'd felt a boob and, you were right, they were awesome. What was more awesome was how your fingers still stayed on it, so that I had to touch you when I did. Did you do that on purpose, Big Brother? Did you want to feel my touch even if it couldn't be the way that you wanted?"

Sam's hand is slowing, and his lips are brushing the underside of Dean's jaw as he talks. The sensation makes Dean's hips lurch, seeking out more thorough contact with that crazy paw of his idiot giant brother's.

He neither confirms nor denies Sam's words, just waits for the story to continue, because there's more, more to hear, more to be had.

"Then your tongue was on her nipple and she was making these crazy moans, like you were fucking her or something and her hand grabbed my shoulder, pulled me closer. I was worried, then, that you would be pissed, that'd you'd only meant to give me a taste, but you didn't even move up from her tit when I started on the other one. She went crazy then, having both of us on her. Do you remember the way she was squirming?"

The lips at his neck become a tongue and then teeth and he's doing his own squirming, just like Clara in the story, the true story. "I was following you, ready to take whatever you would let me. And not just from her, but from you. You could have fucked us both that day, Dean."

Dean's whimper is so soft, but Sam's hips grind into him right after and he knows that it has provided the impetus for the action. Then, the hand is off his cock, and he whines for a different reason. "Sam?" he asks, hearing his brother shuffling behind him.

"Back," says Sam, before he actually is, but when he does return, the boxers separating dick from ass are gone. Dean's never felt his brother's dick before, rarely even seen it, since they've grown. It feels warm and softly firm. It makes him want things he shouldn't want, wrong things, like the things they're already doing, but further past that line.

The hand returns and his dick leaps in joy at the return of the touch even as his mind revolts. _Wrong_. The pre-come that had pooled in the brief moments that Sam had stopped gets caught up on Sam's hand, lubricating his smooth tugs. It feels so goddamn good.

"Remember how wet her pussy was when you took off her jeans? I think she'd even soaked through those. And she was clean-shaven, sweet bare pussy. You were licking her, so you know how wet she was. I was going to town on her breasts. I was happy to have both of them to myself, though I preferred sharing so that I could watch your tongue. I was disappointed, at first, when you started going down on her because I couldn't see what you were doing, but then you looked up at me. The fucking look you gave me when you did. You wanted her, but you also wanted me, didn't you?

Dean, answer me. That look you gave me. That was you wanting to fuck us both right?"

Dean shakes his head. He needs to deny it because admitting the truth is too awful, makes him too horrible of a person. Each shake of his head brings his face against his brother's head. He couldn't have wanted to fuck his brother, to lay him out right next to Clara, slide into her, get his dick all wet with her juices, and then slide into Sam's ass. He couldn't have wanted to see what his brother looked like on his dick, what he looked like when he hit that good spot that he'd heard about. He definitely couldn't have wanted to make Sam come so hard and so good that no other fuck would ever satisfy him.

Sam ignores the shake or maybe acts as though it was a yes, because he continues. "And you came up from her and your mouth was coated in her, so you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. You said, "You should help Sammy out while I go get a rubber," and boy did she help me."

His wording had been ambiguous on purpose, Dean remembered. Clara was really into what they were doing, it was obvious, but he didn't want to say to her, "Suck my brother's dick" because that was way too much like an order and he wasn't going to do anything the chick didn't want to do. But by the time he got back with the little square package of prophylactic, his baby brother's pants had found the floor and his cock had found Clara's mouth. He was standing and she was on her knees on the bed. He couldn't have felt jealous, because he didn't want to be beside her, sharing that forbidden part of Sam, letting his tongue and his mouth adore his brother as much as his heart did.

"Her mouth was as wet as her pussy. I don't know if it was cause it was the first time, but that was some of the best fucking head I ever got. I almost came a couple of times, but she pulled off just right, and it was nearly impossible to stop once you got behind her. I bet you liked the view from back there, didn't you? Seeing her pussy dripping in front of you and her head bobbing up and down on my cock? I don't even remember you putting on the damn condom, just remember the first thrust that you made into her. She fucking screamed with her lips still around my cock and I wondered what that felt like. I wanted to be the one underneath you being filled by your cock."

Sam is humping him now, cock pressed between his ass cheeks, and the hand is pumping him to the same rhythm and Dean is fucking losing it. He can feel it, the way she'd been almost too wet, and he kept slipping out of her unintentionally, and the warm soft skin on her hips as he pulled her down to meet his hips. He can see, there in the dark hotel room, what Sam's face had looked like as she slurped on his cock, can see the round hazel eyes. The reason why he knows what that looks like, the reason he doesn't know if Clara had any birthmarks or tattoos, can't picture her back or the way her hair must have bounced as he fucked her from behind, is because….

"You looked at me the whole fucking time," says Sam.

Shame, the deep repressed horrible shame that he's pushed down so long rises up like an orgasm and washes over him, leaving just as vulnerable as if he had come. His emotions are raw where Sam handles them, where he manipulates the sensitive skin of his dick, making him _feel_. He doesn't want to feel, certainly not this, certainly not the shame of taking advantage of his little brother, luring him into a sexual situation with a hot dame when he wasn't even legally old enough to drive a car. He doesn't want to be a predator, wants to have only been something good in Sam's life.

Sam can't see the tears that sting Dean's eyes, probably knows only that Dean's dick is twitching, pulsing, desperate to find any hole and release, eight and a half inches of lizard brain.

"You wanted me on my knees, didn't you, Dean? You wanted to be pushed up inside of me? Wanted me to make those sounds underneath you?"

Dean's getting so close, balls drawing up tight, breath coming in little gasps. He's so fucking close and the hand is moving furiously, encouraging him to come, milking the come from him. But it's the words that do it, that finally draw that small death from him. It's Sam saying those things he's terrified of hearing, wanting to hear, hating to hear. He wants to cover his ears, he wants to go back in time and change what happened in that Tennessee hotel room because everything that Sam is saying is true and it can't be, but it is. _Wrong wrong wrong_.

"You wanted to fuck your little brother!" The words are no longer questions, but accusations, and maybe not just to his guilty ears. "You wanted to fuck me, Dean, admit it! Say you wanted to fuck me! Wanted to fuck your little thirteen year old brother! Wanted to open me up and…."

Dean's orgasm is a tidal wave comprised of guilt and fear and lust and love and trauma. It is all the years of hiding that moment from himself and all the moments before and since, all those times when he wanted to reach out to Sam, to connect with him, but couldn't, had to stop himself from getting too close, because the predator was still there lurking, hiding behind his carnal thoughts and every fucking beat of his heart. That the urges felt, that they feel like love, doesn't matter because they're wrong. He doesn't have the orgasm, the orgasm has him. His toes curl, his asscheeks clench, his fingers strangle the sheets, and he cries out, louder than he ever has in bed. And at first it's just a sex noise, the grunt with the hissed whine at the top, but it becomes a word, a confession. "Yes!" he says, hot ejaculate pumping out of him, pumping out of Sam's fist, onto the bed. "Yes!"

The hand leaves him, but that's fine. He's too sensitive for it now anyway. He feels it again, on his ass, but it's in motion. He waits for Sam to jack himself off, dizzily realizes that it's going to be on him, that Sam's going to come on him.

The motion is furious behind him, the top of each stroke like a light spanking. Sam 's mouth is on his neck, sucking, biting, breath rasping, and then it's over and he feels it, the very essence of Sam on his skin. He shivers with the feel of it, dick twitching, useless but enthusiastic. Then Sam lies still for a full minute, breathing returning to normal. Except for their cardiovascular systems, they are motionless, recovering.

Dean may never recover.

Sam climbs out of his bed and heads to the bathroom. Dean takes the opportunity to wipe away the tears from his cheeks and from the ear they'd slipped into. He adjusts his briefs, just using them to soak up the sticky mess in his pubic hair and on his dick. There's no hope for the puddle on the bed, he just scoots back from it, not willing to take care of the evidence of his sin. He does his best to rearrange the blankets; he's half on them and half under them.

He feels empty.

When Sam emerges from the bathroom, he makes his way to his own bed and Dean thinks he's getting out his laptop, can't verify it facing away like he is, but the screen lights up in a minute and gives him confirmation anyway.

"Why?" he asks. His voice sounds sentimental, heart-broken and weary because he is, somewhere underneath the emptiness is all those things, all those feelings exacerbated by, not purged by, the sweet mechanisms that led to the wet spot. He doesn't understand and probably doesn't want to. What had they accomplished here tonight? Did Sam also ache to feel loved? Or did he want Dean to own up to practically molesting him as a young teenager? And what the fuck was the handjob about? It felt like punishment and it felt like reward.

"Just testing a hypothesis," Sam says absently, already engrossed in the internet.

Dean pretends to sleep.


End file.
